HOT as F*CK

by Scott Hildreth

  The lead singer of the band had died of a heroin overdose the day before we graduated high school. Paying tribute to him and my love of the band, I had stuck the sticker on Otis’ glove box while I waited in the car as he and Axton discussed our after graduation plans.

  I glanced over the top of the car.

  “It’s still there,” I said.

  “Right where you left it,” he said. “I wanted to kill you for sticking that fucker on there, but I could never bring myself to remove it.”

  “The memories this thing brings back,” I said as I glanced up and down the side of the car.

  “Good ones,” he said as he walked around the front of the car.

  “Take me for a ride,” I said as I reached for the door handle.

  He turned around and walked back to the side of the car.

  “Get in,” he said as he opened the door.

  As the engine started, it startled me. The sound of the rumbling exhaust, thoughts of all the times I had sucked his cock while we’d driven to the movies, and the sheer excitement of seeing the car again caused me to begin to shake. I held my arm to the side and flattened my hand as he backed out of the driveway.

  “Look,” I said as he shifted the car into gear.

  “What?”

  “I’m shaking,” I said as I nodded my head toward my hand.

  “Why?” he said as he released the clutch.

  I shook my head. “This car, you. Memories. Jesus, Otis. This is just crazy. I can’t believe…”

  “Well, believe it. I’m not letting you get away this time,” he said over his shoulder as the car inched along the street.

  “Promise?” I asked.

  He released the gear shift, held his right hand at his side, and extended his pinkie finger from his otherwise clenched fist.

  “Pinkie promise,” he said.

  A chill ran down my spine. He remembered. We had made dozens of pinkie promises as kids, but he would never pinkie promise we would be together forever because he said he couldn’t guarantee it. According to Otis, and to his father, breaking a pinkie promise was punishable by cutting off the pinkie of the one who broke the promise.

  I pointed my extended pinkie finger at him. “If you break a pinkie promise…”

  “I’ll let you cut the fucker off with my dad’s pocket knife,” he said before I finished speaking.

  “You sure you want to do this,” I asked.

  With lightning-like speed, he reached for the gearshift, shifted gears, and thrust his hand into the air, locking my pinkie with his. Now with our hands in the center of the car with our pinkies intertwined, everything I had sat in the room and worried about no longer mattered. Now, I had Otis right where I wanted him.

  In my life forever.

  “There, now you’re stuck,” he said.

  I stared down at our locked pinkies.

  “Couldn’t be happier,” I said.

  He released my finger and shifted gears again. I gazed at him admiringly, and realized he wasn’t wearing his motorcycle vest. Maybe, I decided, it was because he wasn’t riding his motorcycle. To let him know I noticed, I opted to mention it.

  “Not wearing your biker vest today?” I asked.

  He shook his head as he turned the corner onto Central Avenue. “Not allowed to wear them in cars. The vest is called a cut. And we call cars or any kind of vehicle a cage. And there’s no cuts allowed in cages.”

  I nodded my head as I glanced down at my pinkie.

  “I see.”

  Considering Otis was now in an actual motorcycle gang made me a little nervous. Although he and a few friends - Axton included - had ridden motorcycles since they were kids, he was never in a gang in the past. My experience with motorcycle gangs was limited to what I saw on the news, and although I hadn’t seen much, I couldn’t help but see the nationwide coverage the biker gunfight in Texas was given.

  “So, this gang you’re in, do you…”

  “It’s a club, not a gang,” he interrupted.

  “Okay,” I said. “Your club, what is it that you guys do?”

  With his eyes fixed on the road ahead, he responded without emotion.

  “We ride bikes and drink beer.”

  “That’s it?” I asked, somewhat relieved and slightly shocked.

  “Can’t really say, Sam. It’s like this,” he said over his shoulder and he changed lanes, “We’re a private club. Club business is club business, and no one else’s. We don’t discuss it with anyone. It’s nothing against you, and even though you’re the only woman I truly trust, for sake of the club and everyone in it, I’m sworn to secrecy so to speak.”

  I turned to the side and faced him directly. “Secrecy? So we’re going to keep secrets?”

  “Sam…” he said.

  “You aren’t like those guys down in Texas, are you? The ones that got in a gunfight?” I asked.

  I stared at him as he gripped the steering wheel in his hands. Obviously he was slightly offended by my question - the muscles on his biceps flared as he clenched the wheel. After swallowing and giving his response some thought, he glanced in my direction.

  “There’s motorcycle clubs, and there’s 1%er motorcycle clubs. The 1% club is a name that dates back to World War one, and is indicative of the belief that only one percent of people who ride motorcycles are outlaws. A 1%er club is called an outlaw club. They were an outlaw club,” he explained.

  “Are you…or is your club an outlaw club,” I asked.

  He nodded his head. “Yes we are.”

  “So how long until you guys decide to shoot up a bar and go to prison, Otis?” I asked sarcastically.

  “We don’t shoot up bars, Sam. We’re not like that,” he said over his shoulder.

  I glanced up as he turned the car into the parking lot of a Starbucks coffee shop. Although I’d been to the intersection, the last time I had been there, there wasn’t a coffee shop, but a gas station.

  “When did they put this here?” I asked.

  “Ten, maybe twelve years ago,” he responded.

  As I glanced at the building over my shoulder, I realized in my time away a lot of things had changed. I turned toward Otis and crossed my arms.

  “Well, I don’t like the secret thing,” I huffed.

  He raised his hands to his head and rubbed his temples for a long moment. As he lowered his hands, he sighed.

  “Look at it this way, Sam. I just made a pinkie promise with you. Do you think I’ll break it?” he asked.

  “No, I sure don’t. I know how you’re weird about promises. I like that about you,” I responded.

  “Okay, look at it this way. I took an oath with the club. I made a promise, under oath, to never discuss the intricacies of the club or club business with an outsider, all in an effort to protect the club and the men in it. For me to break that promise would be no different than breaking my pinkie promise with you. I gave my word. It’s all I’ve got, Sam.”

  As much as I didn’t like it, everything now made perfect sense. Otis was a prideful man, and he had always been a man with tremendous moral values. I’m sure he took great pride in being able to offer the club his absolute silence when questioned of their activities.

  “Okay, I’ll respect that,” I said with a nod. “What are we doing here?”

  “Well, now that we’re done arguing about that, I’m going to get a cup of coffee. I thought we’d relax out here in the sun before it gets too hot, maybe get lunch, go to a movie, and then we’ll see,” he said.

  “You going to let me suck that big cock of yours in the movie?” I asked.

  He reached for the door, opened it, and turned to face me.

  “Does a shark shit in the sea?” he responded.

  “Sure does,” I said.

  “Answer’s yes,” he responded.

  As thoughts of sucking Otis’ cock in a half-filled afternoon movie filled my mind, concerns and worries about his involvement in an outlaw motorcycle club slowly vanished. One thing about being i
n a relationship with Otis was that all the time I had spent with him was filled with love, sex, and passion, leaving very little time for anything else.

  And, as love, sex, and passion were on the top of my relationship priority list, I didn’t complain one bit.

  “Well, let’s choke down a cup of coffee and get to the movie,” I said over my shoulder as I reached for the door handle. “I haven’t been to the movie in years.”

  “Been a bit for me, too,” Otis said as he opened his door.

  I paused and glanced at him over the top of the car. “Last movie you saw?”

  “Fight Club,” he said with a nod.

  “Fight Club? Like Fight Club with Brad Pitt and Edward Norton?” I asked.

  Fight Club was the last movie I had seen with Otis, in the fall of 1999, immediately before we split up. Immediately after that, I moved away. It was late October of 1999, right before my favorite holiday, Halloween.

  Otis shrugged his shoulders and tilted his head to the side. “First rule of Fight Club is…”

  “First rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about fight club,” I said as I walked around the edge of the car.

  “Second rule of Fight Club is…” he said as he stepped toward me and reached for my hand.

  “Second rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about fight club,” I said flatly.

  He stopped walking and turned to face me. “Third rule of Fight Club is…”

  I gazed at him and grinned. For me, this was easy. I’d seen the movie on Netflix and owned the DVD. Watching the movie reminded me of him, and I had watched it no less than fifty times.

  “Third rule of Fight Club is, if someone yells stop, goes limp, or taps out, the fight is over,” I responded.

  “I love you, Sam,” he said as he leaned forward and began to kiss me.

  As we stood in the middle of the parking lot kissing, I couldn’t help but admit that I loved him too. It was almost as if when we split in 1999, progress for both of us had stopped completely. Our lives continued, and the world’s clock ticked at the same pace, but neither of us made any progress toward building a new life or moving on. Now, fourteen years later, we were both ready to make up for what we had missed out on for so many years.

  As our lips parted, I stood and stared at him admiringly. Although he had gone through changes in his life, he was still very much the same person I fell in love with as a young girl and continued to love until this day. A little older, more than likely a lot wiser, and now in an outlaw motorcycle gang, he was still the same playful, loving, protective person he had always been.

  And in considering all of the good he offered me, I decided to cast what little bad he had embraced aside. For me to be critical of him for something he so wholeheartedly believed in would be selfish.

  And I had no intention of being selfish.

  Not again.

  It was time for me to become grateful.

  As we walked toward the coffee shop, hand-in-hand, I glanced back toward the Camaro. After all these years he still had it. He had kept it for whatever reason, but ultimately, he had kept it. To me that was all that mattered.

  And for that, I was grateful.

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  OTIS

  There was never a doubt in my mind that I had the ability to love. I loved the MC. I loved the passion the men shared, my MC Brothers, and the concept of the club entirely. I loved the brothers I held close to my heart - Axton, Toad, and Biscuit - and without a doubt I loved Avery and Sydney.

  The love I felt for my parents was indescribable.

  Loving a woman - truly loving a woman who I believed to be my other half - was different.

  Much different.

  Sam wasn’t in my world, she was my world. I would do anything for her, everything to protect her, and whatever I was required to do to preserve what we had together. As soon as I had her in my arms again, I realized the depth of my love for her.

  Although I knew all along that I loved her, I don’t think I realized exactly what loving someone completely meant. I was no longer a selfish boy, I had developed into a selfless man, and loving Sam was proving to be something I was not only capable of, but obsessed with. Sam provided me with an entirely new list of reasons to want to live life to the best of my ability.

  Loving her didn’t keep me from pushing her to her limits. In fact, pushing her was always something she loved about me, and I hoped it would never change.

  “You sure as fuck better,” I growled.

  “Seriously, Otis. There’s like…” She turned her head and glanced around the theater. “Like twenty people in here.”

  “Look at me, Sam. Look at me,” I said sternly.

  “Okay Otis, I’m looking at you,” she whispered.

  “Do I look like I give a fuck?” I asked.

  After a few seconds of studying me, she shrugged her shoulders. “No.”

  “Okay. Now, do me a favor. For me. Stick your finger inside your shorts and feel that little pussy of yours. Tell me if it’s wet, Sam,” I said flatly.

  After glancing around the theater nervously, she lowered her hand between her legs. I gazed toward her lap and watched as she slid her finger beneath the fabric of her shorts. After a few seconds, she sighed, raised her finger in the air, and wiped it on the seat beside her.

  “Soaked,” she said.

  “Now, let’s agree on something,” I whispered.

  “Let’s hear it,” she said.

  “Well, without a doubt, there are times when a guy wants to fuck, and his cock isn’t very cooperative. He might want to go at it, but his junk is limp. And, there are times when a woman spends half an hour kissing a guy, thinks he’s pretty hot, and decides she wants to fuck him. The problem is that her pussy isn’t wet yet. Now can we agree these types of things happen, and these situations actually exist?” I asked as I glanced down the rows of seats.

  “Yeah, I agree,” she whispered.

  I turned my head to the side and focused on her beautiful face as I continued. “Okay. Good. Now, conversely, if a man’s cock is rigid as a piece of steel, or a woman’s pussy is dripping down her leg, would you not agree that she or he is ready not only from a mental state of being, but physically as well?”

  “I suppose so,” she said.

  “Damn, we agreed on something. Good. Okay, now, let me ask you one more thing. Do you love me,” I asked as I reached for my belt buckle.

  Even though the theater was quite dark and the movie hadn’t started yet, it wasn’t difficult to see her wrinkled brow or detect her huge attitude.

  “You know I do,” she hissed in a half-whisper.

  “Okay. Well, if you love me, and your pussy is currently a wet little dripping mess, why would you deprive not only me - but your willing and wanting self - of a little cock?” I asked as I unbuttoned my jeans.

  She glanced downward, studying my hand as I unbuttoned my jeans. As I pulled my cock free of my pants, she nodded her head toward it and glanced upward.

  “That’s why. In your hand. Look at it, Otis. I’m not depriving myself of a little cock. Your cock needs a fucking zip code. It’s huge. Now, let me ask you something,” she said as she alternated glances between my cock and my face.

  “Okay?” I said as I began to stroke my cock.

  “You’ve taken a shit before, right,” she asked.

  I rolled my eyes and glanced up at the ceiling before answering.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Okay. Now you’re a pretty big dude, so I’m going to guess you take a pretty big shit. Let’s just agree on that, okay?” she said as she nodded her head.

  “Alright,” I said, feeling somewhat frustrated with her line of thinking.

  “Okay. Now if you’ve taken pretty big shits over the years, I’m going to guess your asshole is about as receptive to having something stuffed in it as my pussy is. Probably a pretty good match. Your ass and my twat. Now ask yourself this. Do you think I could shove that fucker in you and have you no
t squeal so loud you’d wake the dead? Do you?” she asked.

  I shook my head and chuckled. I had no idea where she was headed with the shit-talk, but she made a good point. Sam never had a problem challenging me if she disagreed, and I respected her for it. My job, in my opinion, was to make sure she felt the way she believed she felt.

  I continued to stroke my cock as I stared at her.

  “Guess not,” I said flatly.

  “Huh. Point made,” she said as she turned to face the screen.

  As the lights began to dim, and the sound system began to emit Dolby THX bouncing ball bullshit around the room, I stroked my cock and tilted my head in her direction.

  “One more question,” I said as I leaned toward her.

  “Shoot,” she whispered.

  I leaned my head onto her shoulder and glanced up into her eyes.

  “When you’re watching a movie, do you ever turn around and watch the people behind you?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No, I watch the movie.”

  “Who’s behind us?” I asked.

  “Nobody, Otis. We’re in the back row,” she whispered.

  “So the only people who can see us are in front, right?”

  “Yeah,” she responded.

  “And we just agreed they’re not going to turn around, right?” I asked as I lifted my head from her shoulder.

  “Forget it, Otis,” she said.

  I released my cock from my grip and reached for her hair. After lifting the blonde strands over her left ear and carefully draping them behind it, I admired her beautiful face. After a few seconds of admiration, I leaned toward her and bit the bottom of her ear between my teeth. With her earlobe in my teeth, I growled into her ear.

  “You sexy little bitch,” I breathed against her ear.

  I reached over with my left hand and grabbed her boob. As I began to squeeze it in my hand, she started to moan quietly. While she wiggled in her seat and groaned, I inhaled an audible breath through my clenched teeth and exhaled slowly into her ear.

  “Reach over here and grab my fucking cock, Sam,” I said.

  Without speaking, her hand fumbled in my lap until she found my rigid cock. As she began to slowly stroke it, I bit into her earlobe with slightly more force and exhaled into her ear again. Immediately, her shoulder jerked and she tilted her head to the side, pressing against the side of my face.